Charles Sheffield - Starfire

Dark eyebrows rose high on the smooth forehead. “Whoo. That’s what I call livin’ dangerous. I wondered if you’d carry through. I guess it helps that you’re out here where he can’t get at you. What did he say?”

“Nothing much. Called me an ungrateful bitch, a faithless fucker, and a worthless whore. Told me I’d never work again, anywhere. He took it real well.”

“I’d say. What’d you tell him?”

Maddy hesitated. She had mentioned the Argos Group’s fleecing of Sky City, but she had been careful not to use Seth’s name or to quote his assertion of deliberate shield delays. “I kept pretty quiet. When Gordy’s on a rant he doesn’t leave you much space.”

“Too true. Makes you wonder why we work for him. Or did, in your case. He’s gettin’ worse. Maybe I oughter be outa there, too.” He was eyeing her, making some decision of his own. “Look, this is nothin’ to do with Argos Group business. Yesterday I told you I knew who the Sky City murderer was. You didn’t believe me, did you?”

“Of course I didn’t. If you knew, you’d tell security.”

“Suppose you were dead sure who it was, but you didn’t have hard evidence. Nothin’ enough to stand up legally. What would you do then?”

“I suppose I’d try to get evidence.”

“You really want to catch the killer?”

“What sort of question is that? Of course I do.”

“Would you ask other people to help you if you knew who did it?”

“I might.”

“Well, so might I. I really do know the name of the murderer. But there’s no hard evidence, so catchin’ the killer ain’t simple. There’s a way that might work, only I’ll need help.”

“I already told you, I’ll not go wandering around Sky City with you again.”

“It’s nothin’ like that. I want you to do just one thing, an’ for you it will be easy. I want you to arrange a meetin’, just me, you, and lover-boy John. But before that meeting you gotta make him swear, to you personally, that he won’t say nothin’ to anybody else until the killer’s under arrest.”

“He’ll not agree to that. Why should he?”

“For me, he wouldn’t. Otherwise I’d ask him. You, it’s different. He’d let you flay him and use his naked hide for seat covers.”

“That is gross and disgusting. Also nonsense.”

“You don’t see him lookin’ at you. He thinks the sun shines outa — well, never mind. If I’m wrong, you got nothin’ to lose by tryin’.” He was staring at her with an odd intensity. “Will you talk to him?”

“I will not. Why should I? I don’t owe you. And I don’t work for Gordy anymore, so I don’t owe Argos.”

“You don’t owe me an’ Gordy, all right. But mebbe you owe somebody else.”

Seth stared at Maddy in silence until she turned away. She said softly, “I don’t owe anybody.”

“Mebbe you do. Could be you owe twelve teenagers.”

Maddy looked again into Seth’s brown eyes. He was conning her, she just knew it. It made no difference. She had lost the argument.

He said, “Listen to me. I’m gonna break one of my own rules. I’m gonna tell you before I know you’re aboard.”

For the next ten minutes he spoke and she said not a word. At the end of it, he asked, “Well?”

She had a perfect opportunity to ask John; she could do it when they were having dinner. A perfect opportunity to talk about a perfectly awful subject.

Would she do it? Why should she do it, when the evening offered the first-ever chance for a private and intimate meal with John?

The forlorn corpse of Lucille DeNorville, abandoned and floating in limbo, drifted slowly forward from the back of her mind.

She nodded. “I will. I’ll ask him tonight.”

Why didn’t life ever go the way it was supposed to?

From the private diary of Oliver Guest.

When I suggested to Seth Parsigian a way in which we might catch our murderer, I realized that I was exposing him to a slightly increased risk. He would find it necessary to enlist the support of at least one other person on Sky City in order to carry out my plan, and that person, wittingly or unwittingly, might in turn permit the killer to discover our intentions.

I informed Seth of this when he told me of his conversation with Maddy Wheatstone. He shrugged and said, “Don’t sweat it, Doc. It’s a one-in-a-million long shot.”

“Perhaps it is. So is the chance of being struck by lightning; but lightning does strike. I urge extreme caution. Lock your door, watch where you walk. You are dealing with an individual of great cunning and cold malevolence.”

He said, “Ah, workin’ with you ain’t so bad. But I’ll be careful.”

On that low note, our conversation ended.

There is a well-documented and curious medical condition in which one person, apparently healthy, suffers another’s symptoms. Husbands experience morning sickness, a mother develops sympathetic croup when her baby has it, a sister has trouble breathing during a brother’s attack of asthma.

This phenomenon can be described as the ultimate form of synesthesia, the situation in which a sensation in one area arises from a stimulus applied to another. Normally, the two parties are intimately related: husband/wife, mother/child, brother/sister.

Seth Parsigian and I are, I hope and trust, not related within ten degrees of consanguinity. I reject utterly any suggestion that we are intimate or even close. We lack common interests, temperament, habits, or background. Some other explanation is demanded for the following events.

Sweet are the uses of insomnia.

It was well after midnight when Seth and I finished our call. It was logical that I would seek “care-charmer sleep, son of the sable night.” I was weary, and it was late. After a noisy evening of revolt against programmed instruction followed by prolonged giggling, my darlings were finally in their beds and dreaming the dreams of the innocent. Otranto Castle stood silent.

Before I turned on the security system I opened the door for a moment and stood on the threshold. A cool, gentle drizzle touched my upturned face. Has there ever been a year, in all of history, with more rain? According to the global weather service, only during the initial onslaught of the Alpha Centauri supernova.

After five minutes I went inside. It is difficult to imagine anywhere on Earth darker, calmer, and more silent than the deserted western coast of Ireland on a night of dense cloud and no wind. It is a perfect setting for sleep.

Having said that, I am obliged to note that sleep would not come. For me she has been at the best of times an elusive and fickle mistress. After half an hour I rose from my bed, went to my study, and donned the RV helmet. This was done not as an invasion of Seth’s privacy, but to assure myself that he was, as he had promised, being careful.

The RV jacket on its hanger on the wall offered me a ghostly view of Seth’s bedroom. He lay on his back, covered by a light sheet and hardly touching the bed. On level eight, where his quarters were located, the centrifugal field was no more than a twentieth of Earth’s gravity. Apparently the low-gee environment suited him, because he was sound asleep and snoring softly. I could just see the bedroom door at the extreme right-hand edge of my field of view. It was ajar.

So much for Seth’s ideas of cautious behavior. He presumably still wore the earpiece. I could rouse him and again urge him to be careful; but was there any hope that I would be more successful this time? I thought not. It was synesthesia in its most irritating form. Seth, in the presence of possible danger, slept soundly. I, safe in Otranto Castle, felt the worry and uneasiness that should be his.

In irritation, I changed the setting of the RV helmet to accept only local inputs. Let Seth worry about his own safety. Out of sight, out of mind.